Showing posts with label dances with egotists. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dances with egotists. Show all posts

Monday, November 22, 2021

Stage Set:The Ninth Tailor

 
 
 
 

 
 
 
 
Stage Set:The Ninth Tailor 

"Nine tailors make a man." ~anon.
 
 
The night was dark-haired and delirious.
The cheeky moon clung precariously
to a crooked branch, a bibulous marquess
embracing a lamp post, ready
to strut a whole dancehall
for a cigarette and another chance.

It was the last act of a first edition.
Drying at the prompt, they walked on the
edge of a feather. She'd stopped feeling sorry;
her heart was a trespasser in Vienna,
silent at the soiree instead of begging to
strip to the skin pour épater les bourgeois.
 
He knew he was passing his prime,
going flabby at center, his bons mots
withering like December dahlias. He'd lost count
 of the hands that had picked his pocket, stroked
his celebrated champagne hair, each morning
  combed back unsteadily at the hotel

before the bitter waver in the mirror.
When the curtain came down
it was too weak to exist in more than
one dimension, but it knocked the play
into next week, and left behind its mournful bell
broken at the ninth tailor.


November 2021









posted for Fireblossom's word list at










epater les bourgeois: to shock or startle the coventional
  
Nine tailors: "As explained by John Shand in his 1936 Spectator article The Bellringers' Art, 'Nine Tailors' means the nine strokes which at the beginning of the toll for the dead announce..that a man is dead. A woman's death is announced with 'Six Tailors'. Hence the old saying ... '" ~wikipedia




 
 
 
 
 
 
Images: The Human Parody, circa 1878 © Felicien Rops
The Hanged Man At The Bell,  1867, © Felicien Rops

Saturday, January 16, 2016

SHE




SHE





Her tangled tongue tides infinitely, a stuttering sea
pounding the sense of sand to nonsense.

Her hand is a foot, her pale beak-hook
tears liver from a red-cursed god on a rock.

She sneaks her wings off the mariposa
to discuss the death of a crawling worm

all for a bloody flutter and fall, to pound in our ears
her liver-flecked lie as sweet sufferer's sense,

her mirror eye all on the wrong side, broken
but bright, reflecting the shine of her fracture-knives

cutting deep as she can into watching clay
but clay won't bleed and SHE can't see

that no more will we
ever have what SHE needs.


~January 2016










 posted for        real toads






 mariposa: Spanish for butterfly




Sculptures by Pablo Picasso, photos by Karin Gustafson
All rights reserved to whoever owns them.

Thursday, March 5, 2015

Blue Egg


Blue Egg





I remember
when I was origami
so folded, so
representational,
remarkably flexible
for paper,

my outside jayfeather blue
as an egg, lifting uncrumpled
careful wings (those
fleshless parts of the fowl
left behind when
the breast is devoured.)

Such a successful simulation,
patiently tucked and rolled into
a song, a resemblance
made into a bird, unfortunately
flightless and now
extinct
in the shredder.




~March 2015












posted for     real toads


Challenge: Interpretations with Margaret
Margaret Bednar's (Art Happens 365) artistic eye lights this time on the work of Toril Fisher. All rights to the image above belong to the artist, who has given  us her kind permission to reproduce it.







Top Image: Baby Blues, copyright Toril Fisher
Used with permission.
Footer: Wing of a Blue Roller, 1512, Albrecht Durer
Public domain via wikiart.org


Tuesday, April 22, 2014

The Tumbleweed Maker


The Tumbleweed Maker






You are the thing that
makes the tumbleweed,
the thing that consuming,
consumes itself.

Not the snake but the fire,
not the mirrored serpent but
the serpent in the mirror,
not the rain, ever,

but forever
the dustbowl wind
that takes everything loose and light
breaks what tries to stand

that    pushes              pushes
pushes
to have its way
then getting it,                     
                             sighs away.

I hide from the sun
you pull out  
to smile benignly
dripping gold on yesterday's wreck

while trusting flowers come, 
tumbleweeds sway in greengold balls
the cat lolls on his back
forgetting to crunch up the doves

and things seem--
O
just 
fine--

until the smile 
opens its can of hell,
curls leaves, drops flowers as
the panting cat thins in parched dust

where
the warped wall,
the emptied weed
the hiding heart

are light and loose and broken
ready for you,
the black wind
that blows it all away.



~April 2014








Images: Homestead and farm in Texas County, Oklahoma, USA, during Dust Bowl.
"Dust Storm Near Beaver, Oklahoma"1935
USDA, NARA respectively, public domain via wikimedia commons